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TO THE MAMMOTH-TORTOISE

OF THE MASCARENE ISLANDS

"Tuque, Testudo, resonare septem

Callida nervis."

-HOR. iii. II

MONSTER Chelonian, you suggest

To some, no doubt, the calm,—

The torpid ease of islets drest

In fan-like fern and palm;

To some your cumbrous ways, perchance,
Darwinian dreams recall;

And some your Rip-van-Winkle glance,
And ancient youth appal;

So widely varied views dispose:
But not so mine,-for me
Your vasty vault but simply shows
A LYRE immense, per se,

A LYRE to which the Muse might chant
A truly "Orphic tale,"

Could she but find that public want,
A Bard-of equal scale!

Oh, for a Bard of awful words,

And lungs serenely strong,

To sweep from your sonorous chords
Niagaras of song,

Till, dinned by that tremendous strain,
The grovelling world aghast,

Should leave its paltry greed of gain,
And mend its ways

at last!

A ROMAN ROUND-ROBIN

("HIS FRIENDS

TO QUINTUS HORATIUS FLACCUS)

"Hæc decies repetita [non] placebit."—ARS POETICA.

FLACCUS, you write us charming songs:

No bard we know possesses

In such perfection what belongs
To brief and bright addresses;

No man can say that Life is short
With mien so little fretful;
No man to Virtue's paths exhort
In phrases less regretful;

Or touch, with more serene distress,
On Fortune's ways erratic;

And then delightfully digress
From Alp to Adriatic:

All this is well, no doubt, and tends

Barbarian minds to soften ;

But, HORACE we, we are your friends-
Why tell us this so often?

Why feign to spread a cheerful feast,
And then thrust in our faces
These barren scraps (to say the least)
Of Stoic common-places ?

Recount, and welcome, your pursuits:
Sing Lydë's lyre and hair;
Sing drums and Berecynthian flutes;
Sing parsley-wreaths; but spare,—

O, spare to sing, what none deny,
That things we love decay;

That Time and Gold have wings to fly ;-
That all must Fate obey!

Or bid us dine-on this day week—
And pour us, if you can,

As soft and sleek as girlish cheek,
Your inmost Cæcuban ;—

Of that we fear not overplus;

But your didactic '

Forgive us

Nunc vale!

'tap'grows monotonous; Verbum sap.

VERSES TO ORDER

(FOR A DRAWING BY E. A. ABBEY)

How

OW weary 'twas to wait! The year
Went dragging slowly on;

The red leaf to the running brook
Dropped sadly, and was gone;
December came, and locked in ice
The plashing of the mill;

The white snow filled the orchard up;

But she was waiting still.

Spring stirred and broke. The rooks once more 'Gan cawing in the loft;

The young lambs' new-awakened cries
Came trembling from the croft;

The clumps of primrose filled again

The hollows by the way;

The pale wind-flowers blew; but she
Grew paler still than they.

How weary 'twas to wait!

With June,

Through all the drowsy street,

Came distant murmurs of the war,
And rumours of the fleet;